October 30-November 5, 2000: Michael Brownstein and Noah Budin


 

week of October 30-November 5, 2000

Michael Brownstein and Noah Budin

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Michael Brownstein
atticbats@prodigy.net

Bio (auto)

Michael H Brownstein is a Chicago, IL poet and inner city teacher His poetry can be found on PSH, in a number of chapbooks, three spoken word CDs and throughout the literary press.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Michael Brownstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Inative Grass

The Moshe vanished into hardened sand and adobe brick,
into habitat overrun by guinea pig and flattened llama,
away from labored canals and water and the heat of day
I was there I was there when the sand groaned I was there digging canals with bloody fingernails I was there forcing a flow in water I was there
The Moshe harvested the guinea pig and llama,
popped maize and ground it into cakes,
found grasshoppers do not taste like chicken
I was there I was there in the llama’s milk I was there as the grasshopper baked into bread I was there in the grit of sand I was there

Water From the Sun

the sun is orange red
and fire grass
and the last color in trees
and the shape of water

the sun is water through clouds
and a waterfall
and current in white water
and water cooling at dusk

the sun is mother and father
and a beginning
and the parent to moon
and the shape of things to come

Day’s End

A shift from one road to another,
day cleaning up over prairie,
and the gathered silt of river grass
A bell rings somewhere else,
and we hear it Now is time for homecomings
We need someone to be at our door
waiting for us
to talk about everything else.


Noah Budin
NBudin@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Noah Budin lives in Cleveland, Ohio with his wife and three children and is a singer, songwriter, guitarist, recording artist, actor, storyteller, song leader, educator and poet with his hands in a diverse variety of jobs and projects He is a performing artist with Young Audiences of Greater Cleveland, performing assemblies, designing workshops and serving as artist in residence for schools across North Eastern Ohio, performs his original music around the country, is a member of the Children’s Music Network (CMN), the Coalition for the Advancement of Jewish Education (CAJE), and the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (AFTRA) Noah’s first album of original music, “Hallelujah Land: Songs of Faith and Freedom”, was released in May of 1998
Visit Noah on the web here: http://www.noahbudin.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Noah Budin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

I Heard The Angels Sing

I heard the angels sing to me
at 70 miles per hour

I saw their eyes
round and white

As we sped past each other
in the night

darkness

Each of us racing
home to the one

Who makes us whole

home to the ones
who make us holy

I heard the angels sing to me

When Not To Talk

When I touched your hand for the first time
Holding onto the sleek silver pole
As we rode the El
And I inched my hand down
Imperceptibly
Until it met yours

When, turning at the altar
To see you enter
Hat dress flowers you
And I wanted to announce to the assembled
To the world
To turn around and look
(but they already had)

When, even after having studied the studio-made video
The moment he crowned
And I was sleep deprived
(*I* was sleep deprived?)
In the bloody sticky mess
That would become the miracle
of new boy
I wanted to scream

When you met me at the door
Arriving home at six a.m to greet the pallid dawn
where loss still lingered
And I came on the red-eye
Having left my conference early
To say goodbye
But she was already gone

When, in the all-purpose-gymnasium-auditorium
Crammed with those who care
(For they were there)
Propped on metal chairs and slick with sweat
As the ones who teach our ones to add
And read
And sing
And lead
Before, during, and after the hours of eight and three
Explain it all to us once again
And I wanted to leave
But you, and they, were some of the ones

And the time you burned the toast
All six pieces of them

Cuppa

I felt like a hot cup of coffee on a cold morning
She felt like a warm biscut in my hands
She, ready to crumble
Me, dripping with doneness
Good morning

One Single Act of Kindness

The shot was muffled by the pillow
How he’d suffered and begged
It was more than she could bear

She looked into his pleading eyes
Always hanging on to hope
Singing softly to herself

She knew the time had come
And went into the nightstand drawer
Where he had kept it all these years

She was sickened to notice
That she was smiling
At his gratitude and obvious relief

She almost couldn’t remember
Her life without him
But lately the days seemed so long

“Who’da thought,” he said
“It’d be like this?”
And he thought of 1939

The first time he held her hand
Nervous and shaking
In his navy dress blues

He laughed and said, “Hitler couldn’t do it The Japs couldn’t do it And now look at you “

And the laugh became a racking
Rattling cough and desperate gasps
For breath and air

She pressed the pillow hard against him
Knew she had to act before she thought
And did

She smoothed the blanket with her hand
And then his hair
And tidied the house

Then went to the phone and quietly made the call
And before she had time to finish her tea
They were there

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